


The Soiree Affair

by JeanGraham



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 18:54:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20801312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanGraham/pseuds/JeanGraham
Summary: April Dancer and Mark Slate join Solo and Illya at a swank affair.





	The Soiree Affair

* * *

THE SOIREE AFFAIR -- by Jean Graham  
  
SOMEWHERE IN WASHINGTON, D.C.  
  
As soirees went, this one was rather typical, replete as it was  
with an elegant buffet, free-flowing champagne, thousand dollar  
evening gowns and a multitude of political luminaries. There were  
congressmen in attendance (as well as congresswomen), mayors,  
presidential cabinet members, senators, judges, and more than a few  
governors. The expansive ball room in which they celebrated  
belonged to the "summer residence" mansion of an American oil  
magnate, and its opulence more than exceeded the fur-and-jewels  
finery of its occupants.  
  
Agents April Dancer and Mark Slate regarded the festivities with  
quiet awe. April, despite her agency-provided gown and borrowed  
diamonds, felt thoroughly out of place, and Mark, resplendent in  
his rented tuxedo, was all the same uncertain that he looked the  
part of a Washington party-goer. Unconsciously, they had both  
searched the crowd for two faces they knew would be there.   
Somewhere amidst the merriment, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin  
were mingling, doubtless far more comfortable in this lavish  
setting than were either of the two younger U.N.C.L.E. agents.  
  
"It would certainly be helpful," Mark said, "if we had some idea  
exactly what it is we're looking for."  
  
April agreed. "Do Solo and Kuryakin know?"  
  
"No more than you."  
  
April jumped at the sudden intrusion of Kuryakin's voice. She and  
Mark turned to find both he and Solo standing behind them.  
  
"You ever give a bloke a warning?" Mark joked.  
  
"Not if I can possibly help it," Solo replied. "I take it Mr.  
Waverly did brief the two of you."  
  
April nodded. "We know Vureyka Dor is here somewhere, and that she  
and Thrush plan to try and use her new mind-control substance on a  
dignitary at the party."  
  
"The problem being," Mark put in, "that we don't know which  
dignitary, and we have no idea what form the drug is in. It could  
be administered any number of ways. So there's no way we can know  
what to look for.  
  
"Perhaps not," Illya Kuryakin said. "But we do know what Vureyka  
Dor looks like. And if our sources are correct, Thrush has no idea  
we are here. The element of surprise is in our favor." With a  
knowing look at Solo, he added, "I think I'll go and mingle some  
more."  
  
"Good idea." Solo turned to April as his Russian partner vanished  
back into the crowd. "And in case I forgot to mention it, you look  
ravishing." He looked sidelong at Mark and quickly back to her.   
"If you're not doing anything after the party, perhaps we could...?"  
  
April smiled prettily. "I'm afraid I have other plans. Another  
time?"  
  
Solo smiled back. "Another time," he echoed, and then he, too,  
disappeared into the crowd.  
  
Mark gave her a curious look. "Are you serious?"  
  
"About what?"  
  
"Napoleon Solo. I mean he's... uh ... that is..." He took a  
swallow of champagne and finally managed to eject the words. "He's  
not your type, surely?"  
  
"What's the matter, Mark? Didn't you ever go out with a legend?"   
  
"Eh? Well, no, actually. He's not my type, either. Besides, I  
was rather hoping that we... that is, you and I... could go  
somewhere after the party. Someplace a bit less upper crust, hm?"  
  
Deliberately not answering the implicit question, she toasted him  
with her wine glass. "Let's mingle, shall we?"  
  
They separated, moving through the well-dressed clusters of  
Washington wealth, dimly aware of the muted elevator music being  
played by the live band somewhere in a balcony over their heads.  
  
Mark observed mannerisms, habits, idiosyncrasies. The sixty-ish  
dowager who constantly fingered her string of cultured pearls as  
she talked; the balding executive type who kept patting the pockets  
of his tux in search of nonexistent cigarettes; the over-endowed  
'starlet' with the habit of tugging on one diamond-studded ear  
lobe.  
  
April paid less attention to the visual, eavesdropping instead on  
several snatches of party conversation.  
  
"...the six months of hell I worked for that endorsement..."  
  
"...hardest damned can of tuna fish I ever landed..."  
  
"...so he's not the brightest rising star in Washington. He's  
still got a great tusch..."  
  
"...well why can't you just have a surgeon fix it, dear? People  
have them bobbed all the time..."  
  
"So what are you doing after this fiasco is over?"  
The last voice was again Kuryakin's. April had nearly walked into  
him in the crowd.  
  
"I beg your pardon?"  
  
He did not repeat the question. Instead, his attention seemed  
suddenly drawn to a group of party celebrants gathered round a red  
velvet sectional sofa. "Cat," he said.  
  
"What??"  
  
"The cat." Illya reached inside his jacket to touch the stud on the  
U.N.C.L.E. communicator pen, making a matching device in April's  
handbag begin to warble in response. Somewhere in the cavernous  
room, two others were doing the same.  
  
"What cat?"  
  
She saw it then. A plump white fluffy persian, strolling smugly  
toward the sofa. It wore a lime green rhinestone collar around its  
well-groomed neck.  
  
April had scarcely silenced her own communicator when Solo and Mark  
appeared in response to theirs. They both seemed as puzzled as she  
was at Illya's feline suspect.  
  
"So it's a pussycat," Mark said, nonplussed. "So what?"  
  
The object of their attention had wrapped itself around the ankles  
of a Massachusetts senator's wife. She looked momentarily shocked,  
then glancing down, gently nudged the animal away with her high-  
heeled foot.  
  
"What's it doing here?" Illya wanted to know.  
  
"Maybe it lives here."  
  
"Not likely. J. Randall Garnet owns this house," Solo said. "He's  
an eccentric oil baron with several rather infamous quirks. One of  
which is that he hates cats."  
  
The persian had made its way to the guests who were seated on the  
sofa. One of them, a congressman from Iowa, reached calmly down to  
stroke its head.  
  
Solo watched expectantly. "Nothing's happening," he observed. "If  
the drug were in the cat's fur..."  
  
The congressman's hand reached the rhinestone collar, brushed it,  
traveled on to scratch the purring feline's back. Immediately, a  
euphoric expression crept across the man's face.  
  
"It was the cat." Illya started forward, and the other three agents  
moved to follow. As though forewarned of their intent, however,  
the cat sprinted for a french door exit and the gardens beyond,  
leaving the partiers bewildered at the four strange people who went  
clamoring after it, and at the glassy-eyed congressman who remained  
on the sofa, plaintively begging for someone to instruct him.   
"Tell me what you want me to do," he entreated of no one in  
particular. "Please... tell me what to do."  
  
Mark found himself leading the cat chase. He'd leaped three hedges  
and a number of flower beds before catching up to the white ball of  
fur near the mansion's vast, curving driveway. He cornered it  
against a marble porch, and ignoring its feral hiss and growl,  
dropped his coat over its head.  
  
April caught up to him, panting, with her high heels tucked under  
one arm. Mark's coat had become a writhing black bundle that  
yowled and spat and kicked at him in fury. He held it aloft,  
toasting April. "It's in the bag," he quipped.  
  
They heard rustling, and Napoleon Solo emerged, breathing hard,  
from the rose bushes, plucking thorns from the shredded sleeves of  
his jacket. Mark searched the bushes to either side of him.   
"Where's Kuryakin?"  
  
"Uh..." Solo looked mildly embarrassed. "Well actually, I thought  
he was with you."  
  
April's attention was drawn to a gleaming white limo that had just  
pulled into the far end of the winding driveway. Someone was  
walking from the house toward it: a petite blonde woman in a white  
sable coat.  
  
"Vureyka Dor!" April shouted, and was running before either of the  
men could react.  
  
Mark handed his flailing jacket to Solo, executing a mock salute.   
"With my compliments," he said, and was gone. Too late, Solo  
opened his mouth to object, then decided he was too bushed (he  
grimaced at his own wretched pun) to go after them anyhow.  
  
The enraged dinner jacket writhed, screeching and spitting at him.  
  
The white limo, with Vureyka intact, had already pulled away when  
April reached the edge of the drive. Mark skidded to a stop beside  
her; took her firmly by the arm. "Come on," he urged. "I took a  
crash course in hot wiring limousines."

  
* * *

  
In the back seat of the white car, Vureyka Dor inspected her make-  
up in the flawless reflection of a 24-carat compact. Her first  
test had gone well, all told. A pity those idiots from U.N.C.L.E.  
had been permitted to intervene, but no matter. She would never  
slip into U.N.C.L.E.'s clutches, because she was infinitely more  
clever than they were...  
  
In the mirrored rectangle of her compact, twin headlights glinted  
from far down the private road behind them. Another car was  
following hers. "Driver, speed up. We are being followed."  
  
The chauffeur nodded, but instead of obeying her command, he  
brought the limo to a halt, turned in his seat and pointed the  
muzzle of an U.N.C.L.E. Special directly at her. "Always happy to  
oblige a lady," Illya Kuryakin said. "Even if she does work for  
Thrush. Let's get quietly out of the car now, shall we?"  
  
Blue eyes flashing, she did as he asked, slipping the white fur  
coat off as she moved. Beneath it was a snowy silk evening gown  
that clung attractively to her suntanned shoulders. Illya kept his  
eyes and his gun both trained on her while he removed his  
communicator. He'd intended to substantiate the identity of the  
approaching car's occupants, for if by chance they were anyone  
other than fellow U.N.C.L.E. agents, this was going to be awkward.   
He failed to notice the jeweled brooch pinned to Vureyka's sable;  
the brooch upon which she now touched a small hidden lever.   
Carefully aimed, the miniature needle concealed among the jewels  
propelled its tiny stream of liquid outward to strike the hand in  
which Illya held the U.N.C.L.E. Special.  
  
The gun -- and Kuryakin -- both fell at once to the pavement, and  
Vureyka hurried to accomplish her purpose before the pursuing car  
could reach them.  
  
"Get up," she commanded, and while her victim struggled to comply,  
she retrieved both the fallen gun and the pen communicator,  
pressing both back into his hands. The headlights caught them  
then. Brakes screeched. A young man and woman emerged from the  
car, exuberance on both their faces -- until they noticed the oddly  
blank expression that Kuryakin wore.  
  
Vureyka Dor smugly slipped back into her sable. "Shoot them," she  
said flatly. "Both of them." When Kuryakin hesitated, she  
screamed at him. "I said kill them! Now!"  
  
Mark Slate reached too late for the weapon that had been strapped  
beneath one leg of his trousers. The gun in Illya's hand coughed  
once, twice... and both his fellow U.N.C.L.E. agents collapsed to  
the blacktop.  
  
Vureyka, congratulating herself on a second successful test, went  
to the bodies, turned each of them over, felt for a pulse. She  
turned back upon Kuryakin with rage darkening her features. "Sleep  
darts!" she spat at him. "I told you to kill them, not cure their  
insomnia!"  
  
Expressionless, Kuryakin produced a .25 caliber Beretta automatic  
from somewhere beneath his jacket and calmly pressed a clip into  
its handle. He'd taken aim at an unconscious April Dancer when the  
sound of an approaching helicopter became audible overhead.   
Vureyka pushed Illya back toward the white limousine. "Never mind  
now. Just get us out of here. Hurry!"

  
* * *

  
Special agent Vernon Williams put the helicopter down on the road  
beside Mark's borrowed black limo, and got out to discover two  
U.N.C.L.E. agents sound asleep on the pavement. It took several  
minutes of coaxing and a hefty dose of sleep-dart antidote to  
revive them and get them into his copter...  
  
Some fifteen minutes after returning to the air, Williams managed  
to pick out the white limousine below. He maneuvered the copter  
lower, then began adjusting his controls for its specially-fitted  
guns. A groggy Mark Slate, realizing at that point what was going  
on, objected to the preparations.  
  
"You can't fire on that car!" he shouted over the blade noise.   
"Illya Kuryakin is down there!"  
  
Williams' hand did not draw back from the firing control. "My  
orders were to stop Vureyka Dor," he shouted back. "And Thrush's  
mind-control drug along with her. I'm sorry..."  
  
"Look!" April's cry made them both look back toward the fleeing  
limousine. Not far behind, the headlights of a much smaller car  
sped after it, bouncing wildly over the ill-paved country road.  
  
"Who's that?" Williams wondered.  
  
Neither Mark nor April answered him. But they both had a pretty  
good idea.

  
* * *

  
Vureyka Dor touched a white-gloved hand to the jeweled brooch on  
her sable and smiled. Thrush was going to be pleased with her  
results. Very pleased.  
  
In that moment, the glint of the pursuing headlights became visible  
in the limo's rear view mirror. Overhead, the helicopter roared  
ever nearer. "You cannot allow me to be taken!" she shouted at  
Kuryakin. "Lose them! Both of them!"  
  
The Russian agent nodded, and the white limo's engine roared to new  
life, careening madly down the uneven road. What Vureyka could not  
see, in the dim light of the car's interior, was that the glazed  
look of mindless obedience had vanished from Kuryakin's eyes.

  
* * *

  
April struggled in vain to deter Vernon Williams from the  
helicopter's firing control. "You can't shoot at them!" she  
pleaded. "You could kill them both!"  
  
Williams shoved her hand away. "You touch that again and I'll  
regret I ever rescued either one of you! I have my orders, and I  
intend to carry them out!"  
  
The helicopter climbed, circled, returned to parallel the limo  
along the banks of a sprawling lake. Williams' thumb depressed the  
firing stud.  
  
April and Mark watched in numb disbelief as the car below swerved  
left and right in a desperate effort to avoid the rain of bullets.   
The squeal of its tires was audible, even over the loud _whuff_ of  
the copter's blades.  
  
Swooping low, Williams fired again, creating a line of dust clouds  
behind the limousine that traveled inexorably toward the rear  
tires until--  
  
Brakes screamed in conjunction with the explosion of the blow-out,  
and the limo slued wildly to one side, skidding on the rough  
pavement. Its sideways spin carried it off the blacktop and sent  
it barrelling toward the lake's black edge.  
  
Napoleon Solo gunned the tiny Porsche, desperately trying to reach  
the limo before that overzealous crackpot of a pilot up there had  
blown it to bits. He saw the tire blow; watched in helpless horror  
as the big car spun out and plummeted straight for the water. The  
driver's door flew open, and Solo thought he saw someone roll out  
before the limo hit the lake. It was too dark to be certain...  
  
By the time he reached the crash site, the U.N.C.L.E. helicopter  
was on the ground, and the white limousine was disappearing into  
the cold black water of the lake.  
  
April had also seen the figure roll from the car. Now, back on the  
ground once more, she searched the lake shore, squinting into the  
moonlight until she spotted a movement near the water. She, Mark  
and Solo all reached Kuryakin's side at the same time. Dazed, the  
Russian was struggling to pick himself up. When they had helped  
him to his feet, April and Mark both looked for any sign that the  
mind-control drug might still be in effect.  
  
"She used the drug on him, " Mark explained to Solo. "Kuryakin,  
are you all right? Do you remember?"  
  
"A small dosage..." Illya murmured. "...wore off quickly..."  
  
April bristled at Vernon Williams' approach. "He's all right," she  
informed the pilot. "No thanks to you. Are you always that  
trigger-happy?"  
  
Williams feigned indifference. "I had strict orders," he insisted.   
"And I carried them out."  
  
"That," Illya said glumly, "is what Hermann Goering said at  
Nuremburg."  
  
Mark noticed for the first time that Solo's once-immaculate tuxedo  
was now shredded beyond even the abilities of the estate's killer  
rose bushes. He was also sopping wet.  
  
"Uh... what happened to you?" Mark queried.

  
"Me?" Solo dabbed at several scratches on his face and neck with  
a soggy handkerchief. "Oh, just a little disagreement with your  
tuxedo jacket, that's all. However..." He held aloft a carefully-  
sealed plastic bag containing one green rhinestone cat collar.  
  
"What happened to the cat?" April wanted to know.  
  
"The cat? Oh well, it... _we_ took a little dip in J. Randall  
Garnet's swimming pool, and uh..."  
  
"You didn't."  
  
Solo quelled her protest. "No no. It knew how to dog -- I mean  
cat-paddle. Little bugger swam like a fish."  
  
Illya looked back at the dark water. "Which is more than can be  
said for its mistress."  
  
Odd man out, Vernon Williams headed back to his copter to call  
headquarters and request a lake-dredging. He didn't know what they  
were so upset about. He'd done his job, after all. He'd done it  
very well...

  
* * *

  
"The fact remains," Alexander Waverly intoned the next day from  
behind his Washington headquarters conference table, "that nine  
hours of dragging that lake after pulling the limousine out failed  
utterly to produce any sign of Vureyka Dor."  
  
"Well don't ask me why, sir," Mark said, "but somehow that doesn't  
surprise me."  
  
Copies of the preliminary report on the mission they had all just  
taken part in lay in dossiers in front of each of them.  
  
"Thrush seems to have a reputation," April said, "for managing to  
resurrect the dead."  
  
"At least we have the cat collar," Solo put in. "And enough of a  
trace sample of the drug to analyze it for a possible antidote."  
  
Mr. Waverly did not appear impressed by that. "What we do not  
have, however, is Vureyka Dor. Mr. Solo, I want you and Mr.  
Kuryakin to personally search the lake area for some sign of her  
escape -- beginning first thing tomorrow."  
  
"Uh... sir..."  
  
"No excuses, if you please."  
  
The head of U.N.C.L.E. rose to leave, turning back briefly at the  
sliding door. "I don't even want to know in what particular  
romantic interlude you managed to obtain so many scratches, Mr.  
Solo. I simply want an answer to the question of Vureyka Dor's  
disappearance." With that, he disappeared himself, leaving four  
puzzled agents seated around the office table.  
  
"Well," Solo said to April after a long silence. "Speaking of  
romantic interludes... perhaps you'd care to discuss one -- over  
dinner? Shall we say six o'clock?"  
  
She smiled nervously, then accepted the hand Mark Slate offered  
her. "I'm sorry, Napoleon, really I am. But it seems I already  
have a date for the evening."  
  
They left the room together in Mr. Waverly's wake, and a doleful  
Solo turned back to his Russian partner. "Oh well. So what are  
_you_ doing for dinner tonight?"  
  
Illya gave him a sour look before lobbing the dossier at him.  
  
  
The End

See all of my fanfic and links to my pro fiction at <http://jeangraham.20m.com.>

* * *


End file.
